I’d made myself the story.
“It wasn’t brave,” I say. “It was angry.”
“So what?” Tegan says, with the kind of righteous indignation of a person who really, really wants to be angry. At her mother, at her sister, at Lynton Baltimore. At the world. “You had a right to be.”
“Sure. But I probably should’ve just gone for a walk, instead.”
I steal a look at Jess, who’s watching me close. I remember her on the day we met, that storm in her eyes. Standing from the small table and walking right out the door, before she could do any more damage. I wish I could tell her how much I admire her for that.
“You don’t think it’s what your friend would’ve wanted you to do?” Tegan asks, drawing my attention back to her.
This question, it’s different from her first one—she’s not spoiling for anything right now. She’s just asking. Calm and interested. Probably she’s picked up a few things from Salem. It’s a good question, so I take a second before responding. Make sure I’m giving her an honest answer.
“I don’t know what he would’ve wanted me to do. That’s a hard thing about losing him. It wouldn’t be fair of me, to guess about what he would’ve wanted, especially about this. He’s not here for me to ask.”
He’s not here for me to ask so many things. I miss him the same way I’ve missed him since the day he died. A ragged tear inside me that I know won’t ever get patched or stitched up.
I don’t dare look at her again, but I can feel Jess watching me still. It’s wishful thinking, I’m sure, but if she were sitting next to me right now, maybe this time, she’d set her hand on top of mine. It’s too small to patch the tear, but I think it’d help all the same.
“Do you ever—” Tegan begins, then stops herself, shakes her head. “Never mind.”
All the fight’s gone out of her now, and anyway, it was all bluster in the first place. Whatever she was going to ask, I know it’s got something to do with how she’s feeling about today.
“It’s all right. Whatever it is, you can ask.”
She fiddles with the narrow handle of her fork.
“Do you ever feel mad at him about that? I mean, that he’s not here. For you to ask.”
God. It’s such a vulnerable question. I’m not sure if Tegan knows that, between the two of us, she’s the brave one.
“I don’t, no. I feel mad at myself, sometimes.”
I swallow, a familiar press of emotion at the back of my throat. But I’m used to it. I don’t hide it.
I can take it.
“I think about if I’d gone to visit him more, or if I’d called him more. I think about times I should’ve paid better attention to the texts he sent me, or the times I got frustrated with him for not taking better care of himself.”
Cope, I’d say.You can’t drink like that; youknowyou can’t.
I’d say,You gotta stay talking to your doctors, man.
Tegan nods gravely, and I lower my eyes, pick up my knife and fork again. I may not be embarrassed about the fact that I got a pretty noticeable voice crack during that, but I still don’t want to look over at Jess. If I do, I suspect I might beg her with my eyes for the hand-holding thing. I suspect I might simply ask her out loud.
After a long, uncomfortable silence, Tegan speaks again.
“I get that,” she says. “But it, like,definitelywasn’t your fault.”
I look up at her, that hard teenaged toughness crumbled away now. She looks so young and sensitive and sad, as though all the weight of what Luís couldn’t tell her today has settled again on her shoulders, and I have to admit. I understand why Jess would offer her every single fingerling potato on her plate. I understand why Jess protects her so fiercely.
“Thanks,” I tell her. And then, even though I know it’s a risk, I add, “And it definitely wasn’t yours, either.”
* * *
ANhour later, I’m still at the candlelit white-tableclothed table.
Except now, Jess and I are alone.
